“Is death,” Charlie said. “That’s why I have a cover story. I bought it in France from a man I don’t know in exchange for some of my father’s tobacco. I’m bringing it to my sisters so they can make ... girl clothes.”
Underthings, he meant, but the boy’s innocence didn’t amuse as usual. Instead, a shudder ran up Gerrit’s arms.
Bernardus sat back on his haunches and looked up into the bare tree branches with a thoughtful look. “Yes, and when you travel to France, you can say something similar, but you bought it in Jersey and are bringing it to your girlfriend in Saint-Malo. You’re young enough. They’ll believe you.”
“And if they don’t?” Gerrit brandished the spy pen. “If this ink is visible in any way—”
“They want your maps.” Charlie shot up to his feet. “Need them. It’s no more dangerous than carrying them in my shoes.”
“I don’t like it.”
Bernardus gave Gerrit a little smirk, but with a fond look. “You don’t like anything.”
Gerrit huffed, but he lowered the pen.
“I need to do this,” Charlie said in a low, hard voice. “Everyone thinks the Picots are collaborators. Let me prove I’m not like Fern—at least to myself.”
Gerrit and Bernardus exchanged a confused look. “Like Fern?” Bernardus asked.
“Haven’t you heard?” Charlie knelt to the earth again and buckled the duffel. “She’s working as a secretary at the Field Commander’s headquarters at College House.”
The German civil administration? “Why would she do such a thing?”
“Money, she says.” Charlie shrugged, his head lowered to his task. “Pride, I say.”
Gerrit’s mouth drooped open. If Ivy was appalled to see Gerrit in her dining room...
“She says she’s trying to save the medical practice, but she’s ruining it. Dozens of patients have left.” Charlie stretched up to standing, now nearing Bernardus’s height, and his gaze firmed. “Let me do this. Let me fight for the Allies in the only way I can.”
“And the only way we can,” Bernardus said.
Gerrit’s left hand opened, then flexed around the spy pen. Every day, he built German defenses. The least he could do, thebesthe could do, was to tell the Allies every detail of those defenses.
Dappled light shimmered through the leaves and onto the brass nib. Mightier than the sword? No, but he could fight with it.
chapter
15
St. Helier
Tuesday, February 9, 1943
Shielded with tissue paper to satisfy blackout regulations, Ivy’s torch cast a faint cone of light onto the damp pavement as she walked along The Parade toward Jersey General Hospital for the medical society meeting.
The doctors always talked over her and looked through her, but if they had heard about Fern’s new job, Ivy might be cast out. Then how would she stay abreast of news about public health?
She adjusted the heavy load in her arms. Were her gifts a means of buying their respect? Or was she being honest with herself in saying she was donating for the welfare of the island?
Across the square, a dark silhouette of a man rounded the granite pillar of the Cenotaph. He shined a torch with one arm and braced the other arm over his midsection. A man with an injured hand.
“Dr. Picot?” the man asked.
Ivy’s torch illuminated the smiling face of Gerrit van der Zee, and her step hitched. She couldn’t avoid him, but she could keep the encounter short.
“You’re out late,” he said. “On rounds?”
“A medical society meeting at the hospital.” She resumed walking. “Good night.”
